


A Swell Party

by Pigeon



Category: CW Network RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Established Relationship, M/M, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-31
Updated: 2010-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-18 09:49:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pigeon/pseuds/Pigeon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Top hat, white tie, tails.  The party is just beginning</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Swell Party

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bertee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bertee/gifts).



> Title comes from the song of the same name, which features in the film High Society (which is slightly peculiar as I loathe that film... give me The Philadelphia Story any day of the week). Written for the gorgeous and talented [](http://bertee.livejournal.com/profile)[**bertee**](http://bertee.livejournal.com/) with love. set vaguely in the late 40s/early 50's.  
> 

Despite convention, it isn't a ritual Jeff puts any stock in.

Silver cufflinks are slotted through cotton. Silver shirt studs placed to match. White pique waistcoat and white pique tie. Braces and tails.

He can remember watching his father dress – the care taken over his pocket watch, his valet holding up each new item of clothing to be slid into. Collapsible ( _black, silk_ ) top hat in hand, silver topped cane, pale gardenia as his boutonnière. Staring into the mirror, dusting off imaginary flecks of dirt, adjusting the line of his dress coat.

Jeff dresses hurriedly, slicks back his hair, nails quickly shined, shoes a little dull without a fresh coat of polish.

The guests are already arriving and the ball has begun.

Outside, on the veranda, where waiters glide between women in satins and velvets and men dressed as he is, white tie and tail coat, silver salvers heavy with flutes of champagne in hand, the band has begun to play.

Jeff talks business with the men, promises to set up meetings and discusses recent mergers and takeovers, hints that plastics are the way to go, and not to trust the oil price past the new year. With women it is complements and promises of funds for their chosen charities. Occasionally it is awkward excuses to avoid luncheon dates with their young eligible daughters.

The dancing spills out onto the lawn, the flicker from candles and lanterns glinting off faceted edges of diamonds and sapphires. Through the dancing couples he can see the dull glow of light in the windows of the pool house.

It is easy, two glasses of champagne in hand, to slide through the crowds and off into the dark of the garden, where the moonlight is thin as water.

The pool house is only dimly lit, possibly Jensen has just lit a fire and left on one of the standard lamps, and Jeff leans against the trunk of a beech tree and considers what to do. To knock on the door would be to leave his party utterly, once over the threshold he knows he would not return and make small talk and dance with girls who smile and feel soft in his arms in their Pierre Balmain dresses. Instead there would be cheap bourbon and rolled cigarettes and Jensen, hard and sharp beneath his hands, the biting edge of him making him feel crazed and bright.

Or Jensen may have only just returned from the city and the theatre, greasepaint still smudged across his face and hiding his freckles, mug of cooling chamomile tea by his side as he falls into an exhausted slumber.

If that's the case, Jeff should not disturb him. Jensen is rehearsing a new play, sleeping in a damp little rented room through the week, working from sun-up to the early hours, and only coming out, back here, to the pool house and Jeff, late on Saturday evenings.

Jeff steals a sip from one of his glasses, the champagne dry and light and fizzing against his tongue.

It's been weeks since he spent more than a handful of hours with Jensen. A full year since they managed an entire night together (all the staff sent away and Jeff's family touring Europe) – the sweet feeling of spending themselves on each other before falling blessedly asleep and then waking (Jeff's arm trapped under Jensen's back, Jensen's knee tucked up against his kidneys) both still in the same bed, pillow creases on their faces.

There's a light touch at his elbow and he startles.

"Hey." Jensen is almost completely in shadow, more of a shape and an idea of a person than anything real in the night.

Jeff smiles. "Back until Monday?" he holds out a glass of champagne for Jensen to take, and wills his eyes to adjust to the dark.

"Yes." There is the hint of warmth in Jensen's voice. "Is the party going well?"

Jeff begins to shrug, but then feel's Jensen's hand tugging at his sleeve, pulling him further into the tree line. "Fine."

"Good," Jensen replies, and then Jeff's back is colliding with the rough and solid trunk of a beech tree (planted by his grandfather – _or rather his grandfather's head gardene_ r—seventy years previously). "I'm glad all your well-heeled friends are enjoying their well-heeled do." And Jensen's hands are rucking up his clothes, sliding and creasing and mussing up the cottons and silks.

In the distance Jeff can hear the string quartet playing Debussy and see the slow twirl and glide of the dancers neat in their steps.

He lets his head fall back against the tree as he feel's Jensen's mouth, hot and fierce swallow him down. Jensen's fingers are biting into his thighs, flexing hard into muscle, and he already knows this is going to be over quick.

He watches the dancers and the waiters and the dotted lights, spreading his legs a little to balance better. The air is scented with jasmine, and the breeze is cool against the heat of his face.

His breath is growing short and thick, and he fumbles down to pet at Jensen's hair, letting the strands run through his fingers lightly as Jensen makes wet groaning sounds and tries to swallow him deeper.

Overhead, through the leaves of the trees the sky is dark, moon less than half full, stars distant.

His collar feels too tight about his neck and he fights to loosen it as Jensen begins to hum and bob and the tight, wet heat of it has him biting back growls and whines.

When Jensen looks up at him through his eyelashes, mouth red and bruised, Jeff curses, feeling the release rip through him, bright and sharp and airless, eyes shutting tight on the image.

A moment later and he feels Jensen's lips sliding light and moist against his ear, "I'm glad the party is going well."

And he laughs.

  
.


End file.
